


White Denim

by witblogi



Series: Suggestive is my Middle Name [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ass to Mouth, Bottom Derek, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, but with condoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witblogi/pseuds/witblogi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How weird are we talking? Does he want to take pictures of your feet in women’s shoes?” Scott mumbles through a mouthful of buttercream.</p><p>“That was weirdly specific, no, it’s just... I think he has a <i>thing</i>. Like for weddings.” Stiles hisses at Scott, eyeing the middle aged couple two tables over who keep looking over at them warily. Scott doesn’t seem to notice them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Denim

**Author's Note:**

> The trilogy is complete! Thanks for everyones help with ideas and suggestive business logos and such. I don't know what to say other than...uh...just roll with it?
> 
> You don't have to have read the previous parts to read this fic, but you'd probably want to because more fan fiction.

**The Hunger Jeans**

Stiles is shovelling Moo Goo Guy Pan into his mouth, holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder and watching the tail end of one endless stream of _Say Yes To The Dress Atlanta._

“She doesn’t have the shoulders for that gown.” Scott mutters into his ear and Stiles makes agreeing noises as if he knows anything about wedding dresses. This has been a thing they’ve been doing lately, watching bride day fridays (and what _sick fuck_ decided to make friday nights the nights that TLC plays nothing but wedding related programming like hey you, you should be out doing things instead of on the couch watching TV that is not meant for you because you are single and unloved) together via phone or skype or whatever means they could. 

It was a show of solidarity more than anything else. Ms. McCall was re-marrying and made Scott, as her Man of Honour, in charge of researching the dress. Stiles, as the expert on research between the two of them and son of the groom watched with him. 

It wasn’t his ideal way to unwind from a long week in the archives, working without sunlight for nine hours a day dusting and digitally cataloging in the university’s antiquities annex while the _most_ annoying museum ghost named Carlos hung about critiquing his fashion sense. But Scott was his best friend, and wedding stuff was turning out to be surprisingly blood sporty. 

He flips the page of the grimoire balanced over the thigh not currently holding a plate full of Chinese food and continues scanning the entry about cockatrices. Just because no one was getting rooster snake whammied right now doesn’t mean they couldn’t be in the future and he likes to be prepared. Scott continues to scoff about some showgirl’s inability to remember to bring underwear to her wedding dress fitting and Stiles eats and agrees with him, snorting at the sassy comments the ruffled consultants confess to the diary camera. 

He feels at peace and at home, suspended somewhere between the excruciatingly mundane and the wildly fantastical. It was a mixture that made his toes curl in contentedness catching in the soft but ugly blue material of the loft’s couch. 

Moving into the loft was still new and strange but homey in a way he never expected. Besides it wasn’t really his decision with work being in the city and spending more time at Derek’s than anywhere else. He wasn’t really all that surprised to come up one evening to find his dad having a beer with his boyfriend and all Stiles’ worldly possessions packed in boxes strewn around the floor. 

So not only was there liberal Chinese food consumption and supernatural mumbo jumbo cluttering every end table but he got to wake up and go to sleep every day with Derek. It was a deal so sweet he regularly wanted to poke himself in the eye just to stop all the fluttery happiness surrounding him.

He looks up at the commercial for paper towels smear campaigning their competitors just in time for the clean fragrance of generic soap and a cloud of moist warmth to encompass him from behind. Derek leans into his space from over the back of the sofa, freshly showered, and noses into his neck, trailing damp hair into his ear. He takes the phone from Stiles’ shoulder and leans back. 

“Sorry ‘bro time’ is over now, call Stiles tomorrow.” There’s a pause before his phone is thrown down onto the cushions beside him and Derek returns to his neck kissing now amid the excited squealing coming from the television. 

“Scott says to remind you you have a cake tasting appointment tomorrow.” He mutters, nibbling at Stiles’ neck and closing the grimoire with a lazy flick of his fingers. Stiles tilts his head back into the treatment, baring his neck and earning a hot puff of air and a long suck for his effort. 

“Do you have a _me_ tasting appointment right now?” he asks carefully maneuvering his demolished plate to the coffee table. 

“Maybe, if I liked the flavour of sugar and MSG.” 

He turns his head and catches Derek’s lips for the first time making a delighted sound to find him sans-shirt, skin still slightly pink from the scalding water of his shower, muscles flush and plump from his earlier workout. 

“Clearly you do like some _sugar_ ,” Stiles mutters into Derek’s mouth as he takes the dusty old book and moves it to the end table atop several other tomes in a variety of strange languages.

“If you start humming Pour Some Sugar On Me, I’m not putting out.” Derek presses another fierce kiss into his mouth and begins climbing over the back of the sofa, graceful in a way that probably shouldn’t be possible. 

“Seducing me with hair band power ballads, you do know the way to my heart Mr. Hale,” Stiles faux swoons into the cushions at one end of the couch and laughs as Derek drops heavily onto his thighs and shoves warm hot hands under his shirt. 

“Pour Some Sugar On Me isn’t a power ballad, god you are _so annoying_.” He crowds into Stiles space so warm and gorgeous and _his_. Stiles feels pretty fluttery and happy again but his hands are too busy feeling up Derek’s shoulders to spare a finger for eye poking. 

“You’d better shut up and give me some sugar then, _sugar. I’m hot sticky sweet, from my head to my feet-_ ” he’s cut off mid warble by urgent kisses, fingers walking their way up his ribs to pluck at his nipples. 

“Shut up. shut up.” Derek urges lipping Stiles’ jaw and his nose, sucking at the place his pulse jumps under his jaw. Stiles groans and stretches into it, unwrapping one arm to reach for the remote to turn off all of the disapproving fathers, penny pinching mothers and women worried their boobs will fall out of their dresses. 

Derek’s hand, however, grabs his mid reach and pulls it back. 

“Leave it.” he mutters and then goes back to sucking on Stiles’ tongue like it didn’t taste like broccoli and MSG at all. 

Stiles pulls his arm back around Derek, looks at the screen from the corner of his eye and thinks. 

\--

**Catching White Denim**

Stiles was born for cake tasting. He’s all high metabolism, sugar cravings and a surprisingly discerning palette for chocolate. Unfortunately his mind is elsewhere and he can barely taste any of the hundred samples sitting on the small cafe table between him and Scott. 

He sucks at his plastic fork glumly as Scott swishes his mouth with water and makes notes in his notebook. He’s a good guy, Scott. Bringing note taking tools and actually attempting to treat this seriously rather than what they all know it is, a chance to eat a lot of free cake. 

“So what happened?” Scott looks up with open honest bro eyes and pulls the square of pistachio cream towards himself. The cake is green, it looks like something the Hulk would have at his wedding. 

“What do you mean?” Stiles stabs at the strawberry shortcake and Scott levels him his unimpressed adult glare he cultivated at some point that Stiles is still jealous of. 

“You’re being quiet. So something must have happened between last night when Derek took your phone to now. Usually when he hangs up on me like that it means he’s walking around without his shirt on and you aren’t paying any attention.” 

Stiles feels his cheeks grow hot and steadily ignores it, Scott can’t prove _anything_. 

“Nothing happened. This vanilla is pretty good, hey?” He gestures to a small very bland looking slice of cake he’s nibbled at. 

“It’s Almond.” Scott puts his fork down and leans in, “What’s going on man? You’re starting to freak me out. Has someone been possessed? Nod once for yes, twice for no, three times if it’s you.” 

“If I was being possessed why would the demon or whatever inside of me let me nod?” He jabs his fork into a piece of fruit cake and leaves it there to glare at Scott. 

“Okay, I know it’s you. Tell me what’s going on.” 

“It’s...” Stiles pauses and then leans forward onto his own elbows, “I think Derek has a kink he hasn’t told me about.” He watches Scott stare back at him for a beat or two.

“Seriously?” Scott leans back and Stiles mirrors him gesturing outwardly with a hard bob of his head. 

“I know! I told him all about the autofellatio phase but he couldn’t tell me about one measly-” 

“ _Seriously_ this is what this is about?” Scott sets his hands on the table and gives him an unimpressed look.

“What!” Stiles snaps, “it’s _weird_ and I can’t stop thinking about it.” Scott picks up his fork and goes back to dutifully inhaling cake.

“How weird are we talking? Does he want to take pictures of your feet in women’s shoes?” He mumbles through a mouthful of buttercream and toffee, already reaching for his pen. 

“That was weirdly specific, no, it’s just I think he has a _thing_. Like for weddings.” Stiles hisses at Scott, eyeing the middle aged couple two tables over who keep looking over at them warily. Scott doesn’t seem to notice them, just furrows his brow and goes for another bite of cherry mascarpone.

“Oh...well that’s not that bad? At least it isn’t, like, toe sucking.” he offers brightly, waving his fork. Stiles slumps in his seat and rubs his face, exasperated. 

“Dude what is with you and feet right now?” 

“I just think they’re gross.” Scott shrugs, wrinkling his nose and reaching for some bunt cake closer to Stiles’ side of the table. 

“Okay, well can we stay focused here? It’s wedding stuff. Y’know wanting to fool around to _Say Yes To The Dress_ -”

“During sacred bro-time.” Scott interjects.

“And getting this look on his face whenever I mention I have to remember to go get a tie that matches the wedding colours. Scott, he even tried to get up close and personal while I was on the phone _with my Dad_.” Stiles shudders at the memory. 

He was staring vacantly into a cupboard at the time, caught on a mission to get cookies and completely forgetting about it once his Dad called. It wasn’t an important call just checking in, talking about work, wedding stuff and complain about being unable to eat saturated fats. Derek had crept up behind him as he was wont to do, and tried to engage in nooky on the down low. Stiles admits, he does feel a little bad about how hard he elbowed him, shrieking and dropping his phone into the sink with a loud clatter. Luckily his Dad merely gave a long pause and then asked if he had to hang up so Stiles could call an ambulance.

“Maybe he’s just being creepy? For old times sake?” Scott offered, writing down a few notes about the bunt and taking another swig of water. 

“Maybe he’s got a _wedding kink_. Maybe he wants to see me in a white dress or something. I couldn’t pull off a dress at all, I have no hips. I’d be more suited for like White Jeans or something. Ugh, _White Denim_ , that’s totally what it’s called.” Stiles grips the edges of the table, trying not to vibrate right out of his seat. Ever since Derek’s hand pulling his back from the remote his mind has been going a mile a minute thinking over all of the little clues in the past few months. Scott anticlimactically hums at him. 

“I don’t know, I think you could pull off a dress. I mean, It would really depend on the style-” 

“So not the point, Scott. I’m going to have to stock up on those little bell shaped bubble blowers and Jordan Almonds and keep them beside the lube and condoms!” Scott laughs bright and happy, but then seems to realize that Stiles is serious about this and sobers quickly. 

“I really don’t think _White Denim Kink_ is a thing. This sounds like every other time you refuse to ask Derek upfront about sex things. Why don’t you actually try _talking_ to him about it this time?” Scott’s unfalteringly earnest face with the one furrowed eyebrow head tilt is one day going to have the effect he wants it to have on Stiles but until that day, he just shakes his head. 

“Well there has to be a reason _he_ hasn’t mentioned it, right?” Stiles mentions his kinks, all the time, like constantly. He just wants to make sure his bases are covered via spanking and reading glasses. “Maybe he doesn’t actually know that he’s doing it. Kink denial.” 

Scott sighs. 

“I dunno, Dude. It’s probably not going to matter what I say. You are going to do what you are going to do which is-” 

“Observe and test him for research instead.” Stiles shrugs, it’s a perfectly rational conclusion to come to. If Derek isn’t ready to talk about it, and Stiles is only like 88% sure this is a thing, then more evidence is needed. 

“Exactly. So let me know how it goes when he finds your field notes or I don’t know loses his boner when you ask him to catch the bouquet real quick before before you play Red Riding Hood.” Scott looks at him seriously for effect. “ _Again_.” 

“Would you _let_ that _go_ already?” Stiles huffs, cheeks growing hot again, both from embarrassment and recollection of the night in question. That satin cape had felt like nothing else over his shoulders -

“It scarred me for life, man.” Scott looks positively stricken, pouting.

“Well, we all learned our lesson about knocking before entering rooms and engaging in elaborate role plays behind doors without locks.” Stiles muttered and picked his fork up at long last, appetite returning 

“Give me that honey cake to distract myself from the image of your ass in the air that’s imprinted on my retinas.” Scott makes grabby hands for the sticky piece of cake in question but Stiles blocks it with his elbow and puts it entirely out of his reach.

“Our parents aren’t getting married with honey _anything_ ,” Stiles muttered firmly, placing a blueberry swirl into his hand instead. Scott looked at him like he’d grown a third head for only a moment before his face went back to crushed disgust. 

“No! Did you just imply something went down with honey and your sex life?” 

—

**MockingDenim**

“Why did you buy individual packets of lube?” Derek calls from the kitchen where he’s unpacking the groceries. Stiles stares at himself in the mirror for a minute more, firming his resolve that this is the right thing to do and then marches to the bedroom door and throws it open. 

It’s only a week before the wedding, months after his conversation with Scott in the bakery on Seventh. He found out very quickly he was not actually meant for stealth research via observation. He was definitely a ‘pelt your friend with lacrosse balls repeatedly until he learns to control being a werewolf’ kind of trial and error guy. So really, he only got so far with waiting and watching, wary every time he was brainstorming wedding presents of the inevitable mauling, enjoyable as it surely would be. 

The only thing that had been left to do was strategically start including Derek in more wedding related activities. Interviewing bands, check, got a parking garage blow job out of it. Trip to the florists to place orders, check, gained public hand holding and affection. Even just mentioning how they were going to have to periodically go over to his dad’s to collect the mail and water the plants while he and Melissa were on their honeymoon got him a surprising amount of nooky.

Stiles had never been so confused and well fucked in his life. The evidence was piling up in such startling amounts that he was actually a little puzzled at how Derek still wasn’t mentioning it. So, he’d decided to be the bigger man this time and face the problem head on. 

He only had to wait a few moments before Derek was entering the room.

“Did they not have the regular ki-“ Derek, still holding the box full of individual lube samples and catches sight of him, thoughts suddenly de-railed, “What are you wearing.” it’s not even a question. 

Stiles stretches his arms out a little as if to say ‘what, this?’ and looks down at himself. He’s wearing white jeans, one of Derek’s pristine white wife beaters. 

“You don’t like it?” He resists the urge to do a turn as Derek forgets about the box in his hand and continues to stare at him.

“You look like a member of a boy band.” Derek tosses the box onto the bed without looking. He scratches his beard and his gaze settles somewhere around Stiles’ crotch.

“Maybe that’s what I was going for.” He settles his hands on his hips but feels a bit like a dorky superhero, a very clean one, _Mr. Clean_ , he needs an earring and less hair.

“ _Why_ are you dressed like a member of a boy band, Stiles?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, this is it, the moment of truth. 

“I am accepting you Derek, everything that you are.” He throws his arms out and moves forward to catch Derek swiftly up into a hug. 

“Thanks? I think?” Derek’s breath warms his bare shoulder, “This doesn’t explain why you’re dressed like this though.” His arms come up to pluck at Stiles’ jean’s belt loops, sliding down into the back pockets swiftly. 

“I know we weren’t talking about it; but with the rehearsal dinner and everything, I wanted to make sure we were on the same page about what was and wasn’t okay.” 

“Did you get hit on the head again?” 

“No, I’m not concussed, Derek!” Stiles moves, holding Derek at arms length. Derek stares back at him blankly, eyebrows pinched slightly in confusion, “I know about your _preferences_. And I just want to let you know that I’m okay with it, but we should set ground rules.” 

“If this is you making fun of me because I bought a Justin Timberlake Album -“ 

“No. I’m not making fun of you, as tempting as that is. This about y’know. The _wedding_ stuff.” Stiles expects the dawning look of comprehension and then maybe embarrassment, but nothing happens, Derek looks possibly more confused. 

“Wedding stuff. Spell it out for me Stiles.” Derek crosses his arms, it’s still infuriatingly attractive as ever. 

“Your wedding kink? I’ve been totally just going with it every time you want to _get physical_ to the mix of top 50 wedding songs of all time or looking at napkin holders online. I _noticed_ Derek, and I’m _okay with it!_ ” Stiles rushes into the end of his speech, that dawning look of horror finally making itself known on Derek’s face. 

“It’s not a- a _wedding kink_.” Derek brings a hand up to scrub at his face and Stiles takes a step towards him. 

“Listen you don’t have to make excuses okay? I’m okay with it, we’ll make this work.” He’s going to be assuring, “I bought the lube packets so we could be prepared for y’know event related _emergencies_ ,” Stiles is thinking ahead, there for him and Derek is laughing, his shoulders are shaking he’s laughing so hard into his hand. 

“It’s not _weddings_.” Derek gasps at last, “It’s _commitment_.” 

“What?” It’s Stiles’ turn to feel struck dumb with confusion. 

“You _moving in_. Treating the loft like _home_ , Stiles. Involving me in all the stupid mundane domestic shit like watering plants and picking up mail is what is my _thing_.” he grasps Stiles’ face in his hands and holds him perfectly still.

“But-” he says between mushed cheeks. 

“It’s been a long time since I had that; since I thought I’d _ever_ have that again.” Derek states perfectly clearly. Stiles feels kind of all melty inside and grips Derek’s arms for stability. 

“So you aren’t going to have a complete boner melt down and need to ravage me over the rehearsal dinner table?” he pulls on the hands clasping his face so he can speak and Derek lets his hands fall to his shoulders. 

“A boner melt down sounds painful. So, no, I don’t think it’s going to happen.” He says it patiently and dare he even think, lovingly. Their faces get closer in that way that Stiles knows they’re going to have one of those stupid romantic kisses that no one is actually there to witness but happens anyway. 

“I feel slightly vindicated that this was kind of on the mark this time.” Stiles tells Derek right before their lips meet and it’s a minute before Derek pulls away to nuzzle at his nose. 

“You keep thinking that.” He sighs into Stiles’ cheek and then leans his forehead into Stiles’, “Now will you please explain to me this outfit. Are those women’s jeans?” 

“Macy’s didn’t have any white jeans for men, okay. I thought I was being I don’t know _romantic, supportive_. I was crushing my balls out of my love for you!” 

“Well. We can’t have that,” Derek reaches between them with his best mock concern and starts undoing the fly of Stiles’ jeans, popping the button with his thumb. “But that still doesn’t explain how this relates to the wedding thing.” 

“It was like - the closest I was going to get to _wearing_ a wedding dress.” Stiles says plainly, “I love you a lot, Derek, but I don’t _do_ tulle.” Stiles ignores the way Derek bites his lip and nods seriously hooking his fingers into the jeans to find Stiles really had crammed himself into those jeans, underwear not included. 

“Besides the internet doesn’t have a name for wedding kink, I dubbed thee _White Denim_.” he raises his arms to let Derek skim off his shirt and toss it somewhere in the direction of the laundry.

“Of course you did.” Derek rolls his eyes dramatically but captures Stiles’ face in his hands again anyway pulling him back in for another kiss. 

“So is this a thing? A ‘Stiles guesses wrong and Derek rewards him with sex anyway’ thing?” Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s shirt at the ribs ruching it up under his armpits

“No. It’s going to be a ‘shut up before I make you in the not fun way’ thing.” Derek mutters in annoyance, disappearing while he loses his shirt, but it’s only a moment before he’s back to lipping at Stiles’ ear, “And I don’t want you to suffer any permanent damage from these stupid things.” One hand comes forward to rub at the denim between his legs, pressing starchy thick seams into his confined balls. Everything gets too hot and distressingly tighter than before in moments. 

“Stupid symbol of my love to you mister.” Stiles’ voice waivers along with his balance as Derek pushes him to lean against the bed, tugging none too gently at the jeans. 

“Did you paint these on or something?” Derek grumbles after a minute of prolonged wrestling with the fabric. Stiles flops back onto the bed to laugh with the jeans only partially down his thighs. 

“Are you seriously griping about my pants being too tight? Oh, my kettle-wolf, how far we have come.” The jeans finally end up around his calves but Derek has stopped fighting, or doing anything at all, he’s just staring down at him, hands braced wide around his hips on their comforter. 

Stiles feels his face growing warmer at the sudden recollection at what was so fascinating. 

“I forgot about that, lemme just-” he flails a little bit, trying to kick the jeans the rest of the way off while simultaneously not kneeing Derek in the gonads or head-butting him in the nose. 

Derek stills him before he can make much progress though, making him lie back. The jeans take that stunning opportunity to relax the rest of the way off his legs and puddle to the floor leaving him entirely naked save for one lone article. 

Derek reaches out and thumbs the slim garter left around his thigh. 

“That’s kind of…” he trails off, eyes flicking up to Stiles’ at last, dark with arousal. 

“Gonna take it off… with your _teeth_?” Stiles snaps toothily and makes an aborted noise of distress as Derek launches up towards him, crushing their mouths together with little grace. It’s a race from there, trying to get Derek’s own stupid tight pants off without coming apart at the lips or anywhere really. 

Stiles scratching Derek’s clingy underwear down his thighs, grinning with satisfaction when they _thwack_ to the floor and there’s nothing but the crinkle-scratch of thigh hair and shifting sound of bed springs between them. 

“So, commitment huh?” Stiles breathes into Derek’s mouth, clutching at the perfection of his ass as they grind together, “Domesticity. You want to do this right? Under the covers, lights out, missionary style?” Stiles teases him while Derek sucks up a mark on his neck. 

“Who makes the rules as to what’s right?” Derek cocks an eyebrow and slides to one side, hand trailing down Stiles side, gripping his hip and keeping them moving. When he flattens his shoulders to the bed their positions have been reversed entirely; Stiles leans over him on his elbow. 

“It’s like that huh? I’m doing all the work?” He grabs at the box of discarded lube packets, flattening their chests together in the process, one warm sensitive slide. 

“It’s about time I get a reward from putting up with you.” Derek tucks his hands up behind his head, creating a delicious picture of his chest and arms. Stiles loses precious box opening moments to nibbling at his underarms and palming his ribs, thumbing over tight nipples. 

Eventually he gets back on task and manages to come up with one of the foil squares. He squishes it between his fingers absently, arranging Derek’s legs how he prefers. Derek does little to no work when not explicitly directed to, but obligingly lifts his hips for the support cushion and scooches down to Stiles’ specifications.

“Stop giving me that look.” Stiles snaps finally palming his cock with one hand and ripping the corner off the packet with the other between his teeth. 

“What look?” Derek asks innocently, smiling beatifically up at him.

“That look. You’re being too happy, and I don’t know how to deal with it.” Stiles busies himself with getting the lube out of the packet and onto his fingers, scoffing momentarily at what’s considered an ‘ample’ amount. 

“I shouldn’t look happy I’m about to have sex?” Derek frowns at him. 

“Better.” Stiles grins and leans forward to peck a kiss between his furrowed brows and simultaneously slips the first slim finger into Derek’s hole. Derek jolts before forcing himself to relax again as Stiles starts working said finger back and forth, pressing and making room for a second. 

“You’re the worst at this.” Derek sighs, reaching up to clasp Stiles’ shoulders, tracing his collar and ghosting over wiry muscles. Stiles adds the second finger, immediately hooking them up in search of his prostate and grinning when he finds it and Derek twitches, breath catching. 

“I know. Why do you think you top so much?” He pecks another kiss, this time to one of Derek’s raised knees. He then leaves his chin there, observing the proceedings, enjoying the way Derek moves and reacts to his ministrations. 

Derek appears to be a little beyond words, fully into the motion of Stiles’ ocean, or his sea or something because they aren’t actually to the main event yet. Speaking of, Stiles’ cock gives a sad left-out bob and he reaches awkwardly around Derek’s leg to get to the condoms post haste. 

His fingers are all slippery and in the middle of trying to figure out how he could get the wrapper open with his teeth and possibly his elbows when Derek plucks it from his hand and tears it open with a distinctly mocking flair. He’s about to complain but Derek also does the honours of rolling it on and all is forgiven as Derek strokes his cock. He kneels there between his legs dumbly, lubey hands held up as if about to perform surgery. 

“If I didn’t know for a fact those hips are good for more than dancing I would revoke your top membership.” Derek mutters at him, giving one last stroke and then re-assuming his previous position. Stiles does a little shimmy as if to test the theory and shrugs, leaning in for a new kiss, heated but slow. He lines up with one hand and wipes the other off discreetly on Derek’s shoulder. 

“I ha-ate you.” Derek says into his mouth as Stiles pushes in tight, hips flush together. Stiles grins and begins a slow roll. He always starts off slow, keeping it as agonizingly glacial as he can, drawing it out. If he doesn’t, the whole idea of being in control of his own orgasm goes straight to his dick and the mindless rutting starts. 

Not that it doesn’t happen anyway. He’s just prolonging the process this way, counting heartbeats and shuddering breaths, the way Derek looks with lust clouded eyes, jostled against the pillows with every thrust. 

Derek working a hand between them and starting to stroking himself at a matched pace is what breaks Stiles’ concentration. The sight and sounds of Derek getting off for him, to him, _on_ him is too much and the jackrabbit style fucking kicks in immanently. 

Derek’s hand keeps pace, stroking faster and faster until Stiles is panting and reaching for completion. Derek is arching and gasping beneath him, spurting over his knuckles and stomach, clenching too tight for Stiles to do much more than disappointingly slip out of his ass and feel immediately antsy for his own release. 

He tugs off the condom and discards it to the side of the bed without a thought to where it would end up - future Stiles’ problem now - and begins jerking his own cock furiously. Derek stretches before him and then huffs a hoarse laugh when he catches sight of Stiles. 

“C’mere, it looks like you’re trying to actually gain muscle tone with a shake weight.” 

“Look who’s mister funny man now!” Stiles says bitter and a little hysterical, letting go of his dick to flop restlessly where Derek indicated beside him. Derek sits up and catches Stiles’ hand to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist and then slides further down the bed to lean over his purpling erection. 

Derek’s mouth is always good, so good, and right at this moment while he’s so tense already it’s nothing but a hot slippery slide into bliss. He can feel the warm buttery tension brewing somewhere behind his balls, so close as Derek’s tongue swirls under and around the head of his cock. 

It’s just a moment later, when he realizes Derek’s hand has drifted to his thigh, playing idly with the garter still wrapped there. He groans probably stupidly loudly and finally comes, the idea of the image they make burning bright behind his eyelids. It’s one of those orgasms that leaves him twitching uncontrollably for minutes after they’ve finished and Derek spends the time kissing his hipbones and nuzzling at the crease of his body and leg. Finally, finally he gets to Stiles’ thigh and sits up with it, catching the delicate material in his teeth and tugging, sliding it up and over his knee and letting it float down his calf to his ankle. 

“That was fun.” Stiles feels muzzy and floaty in the afterglow, accepting Derek’s weight on his chest as he pillows his face into Stiles’ collar and hums in agreement. They lie there for a few blissful, quiet minutes and then Stiles sighs and nudges the box of lube packets forlornly. 

“Now what are we going to do with all of these if you don’t need hasty broom closet wedding sex?” Stiles ignores Derek’s snort, “I’m going to have to find someone to give them a good home.” 

“I volunteer as tribute.” 

“You are _still_ not making me the Peeta of this relationship. I don’t _care_ how many baked goods I’ve made you!”

**Author's Note:**

> As all crappy trilogies go, there may be a terrible prequel in the works.


End file.
